


Uneasy Lies The Head (That Lost The Crown)

by TheMalhamBird



Category: 15th Century CE RPF, Henry VI - Shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:20:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23285407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMalhamBird/pseuds/TheMalhamBird
Summary: Henry VI of England has been deposed for a second time. There is nothing left now for him to do but sit in the Tower and await whatever fate befalls him, and pray that his wife and son have survived and are well...
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	Uneasy Lies The Head (That Lost The Crown)

**Author's Note:**

> warning for a brief discussion of contemplated child killing near the end of the fic

It’s almost comforting, to be locked away in the Tower.

Henry knows he shouldn’t feel so. Margaret would expect him to rage, to curse his captors and rail against his wardens- perhaps strike or at least spit at the guards who come twice daily to give him food and watered-down wine. Edward, his dear Neddy, would expect him to at least be melancholy, to pray for deliverance and for the usurper to be crushed by whatever of Henry’s- Margaret’s, really, and Neddy’s – forces remain. But Henry has long resigned himself to never living up to people’s expectations. He prays as he always does for peace, for the good of the realm. For the safety of his wife and child, whom he loves more than anything on this earth, for the safety of his cousins of York, who he can’t help wishing to the other ends of the earth, but what is done is done, and Henry can assume only that it is God’s will he ought to loose the throne.

After all, he was never much use on it.

And a prison cell and a monk’s cell- almost interchangeable, if Henry tries hard enough to pretend that he doesn’t really _wish_ to go outside and feel the sun on his skin, or the breeze, or to smell the flowers he can see from his barred window. Roses. Red and White, growing together in perfect harmony. He smiles a little sadly to see it and turns away before longing makes him resentful. He has books enough, if he reads them slowly, and he has prayers, of course. Some days they come a little slowly. It is hard to rouse from his cot- it is cold, in this- chamber, and the guards are a little neglectful of the fire.

Sometimes, they forget to relight it for days. Henry shivers under his blanket and reminds himself that Christ endured the blistering heat of the desert for forty days and nights and was not tempted into sin; and so, he can suffer a night or two in coldness and not be tempted to self-pity.

Sometimes he dreams of his father.

His grandsire, too. They’re never very clear, never distinct. Henry rather suspects that they’re cross with him.

Sometimes he dreams of his grandsire’s cousin. Lain out on the floor of a cell very much like this one, throat slit and blood pooling beneath him, eyes wide and staring- unseeing and yet, somehow, looking straight at Henry. And Henry does what he can for him, which isn’t much, except to try and close his eyes, and to pray for his soul. Sometimes he wakes praying, and shivers run up and down his spine that have absolutely nothing to do with the cold. He thinks King Richard’s ghost must have cursed them. Him, his father who died still so very young, his grandsire…perhaps this is how it was always going to end, the House of Lancaster: if not him, his Edward, or his Edward’s sons, or his Edward’s son’s sons…

The seasons are changing, outside his window. Henry is quietly glad to see it. He didn’t think that he would live this long.

No one will tell him anything of his wife or son, but he thinks- he hopes- that they, too, are still alive. He would know if either of them had been hurt, he is sure, and when he prays for their safety, he often feels a warmth from nowhere. He chooses to believe that it is Heaven letting him know that his prayers are heard and being answered; that the saints and the angels watch over his family as he has never quite been able to do.

It’s late, when they come for him.

Henry is reading. One of his kindlier guards has procured a new book for him- it’s a _Romance_ , but new material is better than nothing and Henry has to admit he’s rather enjoying himself, despite the impiety of certain parts of the text and the, ah, the explicitness of others. He is sure the Lord will not begrudge him some slightly frivolous reading, and though his candle is burning low he strains his eyes to carry on reading, anxious to know what-

The horrid, unmistakable sound of metal clashing against metal makes him jump. Henry’s mouth goes dry as the screaming starts, the yelling….the book falls from his hand, and he falls from his perch on the edge of his bed to his knees and crosses himself. “O Lord have mercy on our souls,” he mumbles, and shuts his eyes. He tries to pray, but he’s gripped with an overwhelming sense of panic. He had thought- he had thought he had made his peace with death, but he is not ready; it is unbearably cruel of Edward to have him die without a Confessor at hand-

The door bangs open.

And Henry, suddenly, is calm. If he is to die, then he dies, and by God’s grace and Christ’s wounds he will enter into heaven and-

“Father?”

Henry’s eyes fly open.

Edward stands there. In the doorway of Henry’s cell. His armour battered. His sword drawn and bloodied, but his helm tucked under his arm and his face…

“Father!” Edward cries again, and rushes to him, the sword falling from his gauntleted fingers as Henry rises-

He cradles his son as Edward clings to him and sobs into his neck, hugging his baby tight and pressing a kiss to the top of his sweat-damp hair.

*

Their son, Margaret explains to him, will be taking things from here.

It is nice to be back in a more comfortable bed- though there was nothing really wrong with the one in his cell- it is nice to have Margaret beside him, one arm draped over his chest and a finger tracing circles on his rib over his shirt. Henry feels a pang at her words- not because he is anxious to sit upon the throne again (four coronations would be three to many for any one lifetime. Even if Henry cannot remember half of them) but

“He’s so young,” he murmurs.

“He’s seventeen,” Margaret says, “And he’s won battles. He will be well.” Her voice hardens. “And those with any delusions of a Yorkist claim to the throne will be dust beneath his heels before we are through.”

Henry shuts his eyes. “Must you?” he whispers. “Must you slaughter them all, Margaret?”

“They imprisoned you, Henry.”

“Imprisoned, yes, not murdered-“

“Because while you were alive and in their clutches, your heir who had slipped their net at Tewkesbury could not claim to be King- not out of any compassion or pity or _mercy-_ “ Margaret spits the word, and when Henry opens his eyes again she has sat bolt upright, and is glaring down at him indignant. “If our son is to be safe-“

The peace had been nice for the short while it had lasted.

“Not the children,” he says softly, staring up at her. “Not Edward’s sons or daughters, nor his wife, nor Clarence’s nor Richard’s children or wives-“

“ _Henry-“_

“Or I will not abdicate!” Henry says. Margaret draws back and blinks in surprise. Henry cannot blame her. He is a little taken aback by his own firmness- but whether or not this is politic, it is _right_ , or it is right as it can be. “I will abdicate in our son’s favour if, and only if, their wives and children are spared, any Yorkist who agrees to transfer their allegiance is _spared,_ Margaret; there will be no more killing, or at least as little of it as possible, or else you and your son must usurp me as well as York.”

“…Very well,” Margaret says. She settles back down and strokes the side of his face, pressing a kiss to his brow. The year has aged him, and yet somehow left him unmarked, also…she thinks perhaps that she has simply grown unfamiliar with his face. She presses a kiss to his brow. The Woodville woman will certainly have to go, the two male brats spawned…but perhaps Henry is right, after all. No need to kill the children. It would not be an auspicious beginning to her Edward’s reign, and what harm a decade or so between imprisonment in some secret castle and meeting with an unfortunate accident? “You have my word,” she tells him, and kisses his brow a second time, then settles down to sleep.

Henry takes her hand and kisses it. “I love you, Margaret,” he whispers, and Margaret smiles.

“I love you too,” she replies.

She means it.


End file.
